It really shouldn’t work between us.

He’s nonchalant, forgetful, and dawdling.

I’m tightly-wound, organized, and detailed.

He retreats when he’s angry.

I can’t function without a thorough discussion.

He knows the glass is half full.

I focus on what’s missing.

He squeezes toothpaste from the middle.

I insist that from the bottom is the only way.

He’s carnivorous.

Red meat makes me queasy.

He’s tall.

I’m not.

He snores.

I suffer through it.

He turns his nose up to wine.

I dream of romantic trips to Napa.

He believes love conquers all.

I say it’s not always enough.

You see?  It really shouldn’t work out between us.

He craves a hug at the end of his day.

I melt in his arms.  Every time.

He cracks jokes in church.

I cough to disguise my laughter.

He’s touchy feely and affectionate.

I’ve grown to like it.

He brings water to my bedside.

I’m a thirsty sleeper.

He tells me I was meant for him alone.

I know truer words were never spoken.

It really shouldn’t work out between us.

It absolutely. completely. unequivocally. does.

It does.

This post was inspired by the SWAK Valentine carnival hosted by Kristen {We Are That Family}.  Click your way over if you’re in the mood for a love story or two.

Remember that party we were going to?  The one that put me into a tizzy because I wanted to bring along a just right hostess gift?

It was this past Saturday.

You all gave me a ton of great suggestions.  So many, in fact, that I plan to compile the top ten and present them in a future post.  It would be wrong of me to take credit for that idea though; Metropolitan Mama suggested it and I thought it was brilliant.

Are you curious what I decided on?

Baked goods were, by far, the most popular suggestion.  And since I happen to harbor a love for things that ooze with butter and sugar it didn’t take much twisting of my arm to get me to agree.

I found a recipe for cupcakes on Martha’s website.  I was pleasantly surprised by this Martha recipe in that it didn’t call for ridiculously difficult to find ingredients nor did it require an absurd amount of steps.

Not wanting to gift them without first sampling, though, I tried them on Super Bowl Sunday.

To say that they were good would be an understatement.  They were beyond good, beyond delicious even.  These things were like heaven in a paper liner.

Unless of course you don’t care for the dense texture of pound cake.  In that case, you might want to skip out on these.

I’m a fan of the whole pound of butter, pound of sugar concept though.

And that explains my thighs.

Moving right along…I’m not one to hoard a good recipe so I thought I’d share with the whole class.

One more thing and then I’ll get to the recipe.  If the brown – butter glaze intimidates you let me persuade you to put your fears aside and give it a go.  It couldn’t be easier and it results in a rich, praline-like topping perfectly paired with the texture and intensity of the cupcake itself.  Listen to me sounding like a fancy shmancy foodie.  Just trust me on this one.

Picture zoinked from Martha Stewart’s website

Brown-Sugar Pound Cupcakes
3 c. sifted all-purpose flour
2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. salt
8 oz. (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
2 1/4 c. packed light brown sugar
4 large eggs, room temperature (mine were cold and it didn’t seem to matter)
3/4 c. buttermilk

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.  Line standard muffin tins with paper liners.  Whisk flour, baking powder, and salt in large bowl.  Cream butter and sugar with a mixer until light and fluffy.  Add eggs, one at a time, beating after each addition.

Reduce speed to low.  Add dry ingredients to butter mixture in 3 additions, alternating with buttermilk, and ending with dry ingredients.  Scrape sides of bowl.  Divide batter among muffin cups, filling each 2/3 full.

Bake cupcakes until testers inserted in middle come out clean.  I found that in my convection oven they took between 22-25 minutes.  Let them cool before glazing with:

Brown-Butter Glaze
4 oz. (1 stick) unsalted butter
2 c. sifted confectioners’ sugar
2 t. pure vanilla extract
2 to 4 T. whole milk

Heat butter in saucepan over medium heat until golden brown, about ten minutes.  Carefully pour butter into a bowl leaving sediment behind.

Add sugar, vanilla, and 2 T. milk to butter, and stir until smooth.  If glaze is too thick, add more milk.  Use immediately.

*The second time I made them I doubled the glaze recipe because I thought it was a bit scant on the my first attempt.  It didn’t turn out so well so I wouldn’t recommend doing that.  For one thing it was way greasy for some reason.  And also, the cupcakes really just didn’t need to be fully covered in the glaze to be divine.  Guess that’s why she called it a glaze as opposed to a frosting.  That’s what I get for messing with Martha.

Let me know what you think if you try them.  Something tells me you’re gonna likie likie. :)

For more Works For Me Wednesday ideas visit Rocks in My Dryer.

This week has certainly been an enlightening one.

Some of my blogging buddies went to Blissdom and while they were there they picked up a plethora of tips.  Did they hoard all those nuggets of knowledge to themselves though?  They most certainly did not.  Rather, they tweeted tidbits that will most certainly come in handy in the months and years to come.  

One thing I learned was that we, as bloggers, should set boundaries as to what we are willing to post.

Seems I have difficulty with that.

Anybody who knows me will be the first to tell you that I read like an open book.  I’m all about the sharing.  So the setting limits thing perplexes me.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to gain the respect of my readership though so I’ve decided to set some limits of my own.  And I fully intend to stick to ‘em.

Limit #1: I will not blog about sexual relations.  I may infer a little something here and there but that’s the most you’re going to get out of me.  Really though, that’s only because I know my children are reading.  And my grandparents.

Limit #2: I will not post legitimate complaints about my husband.  And not because I haven’t wanted to.  I can assure you that a post or two in that vein has swirled around my head before.  Seeing as how I’ve pledged my life to this man though I can’t fathom a single good reason for punching below the belt like that.

Limit #3: I won’t post anything to intentionally embarrass or hurt my children.  Goes without saying right?

So with these limits set firmly in place, I don’t mind telling you a couple of other things I learned this week.

And with a setup like that you know these have got to be good right?  Hopefully I won’t disappoint.

Yeah, so, my dad?  Apparently he’s getting remarried.  To a woman I have no intention of ever meeting.  Love my dad, but mark my words: this marriage is a colossal mistake doomed to end in disaster.  And I mean that in every sense of the word.  Divorce?  Almost certainly.  Jail?  Quite possibly.  Worse?  I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.

That’s all I have to say about that.

I have plenty to say on another subject though.

I learned that both my mother-in-law and sister-in-law have acquired Facebook ‘friend status’ with not one, but two (yes TWO!) of my husband’s ex-girlfriends.  Kid you not.

And they wonder why we don’t come for Christmas.

I really don’t harbor any ill will towards the ex-girlfriends.  It’s more the family disloyalty thing that rubs me wrong.  Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised though seeing as how when my husband was getting ready to deploy to Iraq four years ago my mother-in-law slyly passed along my husband’s cell phone number to ex number one.

She’s a gem ain’t she?

My husband passed the test in case you’re wondering.  He rocks like that.  And though I already knew it, that’s a piece of knowledge that was reinforced yet again this week.

I told you it’s been an insightful one.

I’m so glad I learned about boundaries.  Aren’t you?

As always, check out the other carnival participants at Musings of a Housewife to pick up pieces of knowledge that you never knew you needed.

Did you notice that Nashville was a popular destination for bloggers this weekend?

If you Twitter (like I do now!) then it was kinda tough to miss.

I wasn’t among the lucky ones to attend Blissdom.  But you can bet I’ve got it on my radar for next year.

I have been to Nashville though.  I lived there, in fact, for a few months in 1999.

But rather than bore you with the details of that short-lived adventure I thought I’d share another, way more exciting Nashville story.

Because, you know, I’m full of ‘em.

So this one in particular came about in 2000.  Ladies Home Journal had partnered with Kmart and the Judds (as in Naomi and Wynonna) to sponsor the Power to Change contest.  They asked women to send in a short essay (300 words I think) detailing an event in her life that served as a catalyst for change.  Cassidy had just made her debut in our lives, surprising me with the Down syndrome diagnosis.  The innumerable ways in which that single event changed me provided precisely the inspiration I needed to write an essay that garnered the attention of the Judds (who were the official judges) and earned me one of ten grand prizes: a $5,000 Kmart cash card and a trip to Nashville to be wined and dined by Naomi and Wynonna.

We were put up in Nashville’s infamous Opryland Hotel where my semi-celebrity status included all the room service I could eat.  I’m sort of food-centric so this portion of my prize totally impressed me.  Of course an itimate dinner and private concet with the Judds (and the other nine winners and their guests) trumped even the free room service.  Other highlights of the weekend included a makeover and photo shoot, being recognized by the Judds during their final farewell tour concert, and the presentation of our gift cards.

It was all pretty cool.

Equally cool?  Hanging out in a restricted area of the Opryland waiting for a bus and meeting Garth. Brooks.  Uh-huh.  Mr. Brooks himself.  And “meeting” might not be an acccurate term exactly.  But I can dream.  He came in the back entrance of the hotel with an ‘associate’ on either side of him.  I was sitting next to the husband of one of the other winners and both of us looked up at exactly the right time.  Apparently Garth was accustomed to leaving people dumbfounded because to my dropped jaw he responded with a confident tip of his hat and a gentelmanly “how ya doin’?”.  I happen to be a huge Garth fan so suffice it to say that I floated my way onto the bus that evening.

The weekend as a whole left me starstruck, spoiled and exhausted.

So…to the Blissdom attendees, all I have to say is: top that.  :)

Last night was Cassidy’s school musical performance.

While I’m on the subject of the school musical can I just ask if I’m the only parent in America who is not amused by these productions?  I really don’t know why they bother.  Watching 125 nine-year-olds attempting to muddle their way through movements but not even having enough room on stage because they are packed up there like sardines just does nothing for me.  And the songs?  Even if the kids did know the words you wouldn’t be able to hear them because the music teacher drowns them out with the audio tape tracks of what the music should sound like.  Oh, and then there’s the speaking parts.  I know them well.  The kids line up behind one of three onstage microphones waiting for the chance to hear his or her incomprehensible words be amplified throughout the cafeteria.

I miss the days when it was okay that not everybody had a chance to speak.  At least then those who did deserved the part.  When everybody speaks, nobody listens.

And back in the day we at least had comprehensible storylines.  We did plays–complete with costumes–set at summer camp.  Or in the wild west.  Or colonial times.  There was a logical progression from beginning to end.  Not a bunch of random lines hastily thrown together so as to give everyone the opportunity to shine.  Whether they actually shine or not.

Can you tell I’m not exactly the most politically correct parent on the block?

You don’t even want to get me started on the trend of “non-scoring” soccer or t-ball games.

Let’s just stick with Cassidy’s performance.

In spite of it’s shortcomings, I do consider Cassidy’s performance a success.

Anytime she can remain on stage throughout the entire show, it’s an achievement.  We encountered only a single sticking out of the tongue.  But at least there was no pushing of classmates.  Or lifting up her dress to expose her snagged tights.  Of course that would have been difficult to do since she was wearing jeans.  Yes.  I’ve learned my lesson in that regard.

There was an aide standing just off stage whose job it would have been to wrestle Cassidy to the ground had she started a coup.  It may be tough for those of you who don’t know her to imagine exactly how much trouble she could have caused up there.  Imagine classmates falling like dominoes down those tiered bleacher things that they stand on and you’ll have a good idea of why there’s an aide on stage.

Thankfully though the aide’s tackling services remained unrequired.

And in spite of my jesting I must admit that I swelled with pride last night.  From the get-go there was question whether or not Cass would be able to participate at all.  She rose to the occasion though.  And while she may not have hit those moves as quickly and accurately as her classmates, she hit them nonetheless.  She may not have known every word to every song, but I did see her mouth forming some of the lyrics, and with only a slight delay.

Mostly it was a success because when all was said and done, she beamed from the magnitude of her accomplishment.

High pressure situations are not normally her strong suit.  More and more each day, though, she is stepping up to the occasion.  And I’m nearly as proud about that as she is.

I’m contemplating starting potty training with Jayce.

He’ll be 2-and-a-half on the 14th.

In preparation I purchased my very first package of baby boy boxer briefs.  They are a size 4 and I have to say that even the frilliest lace bottomed girl panties don’t compare with the cuteness factor of these things.

I tried them on my little man and wouldn’t you know he is the spittin’ image of Marky Mark.  Only smaller.  And way cuter.

I’ve been really playing them up to Jayce, telling him that he won’t be able to wear them until he goes peeps on the toidy just like everyone else in the family.

And while I’m at it I diss on the diapers calling them stinky and yucky and ick, ick, ick.

Jayce seems to be diggin’ it.  Of course right now it’s all talk.

So, somehow we got on the subject of potty training at dinner the other night.

Previously Jayce and I had been the only ones present for discussions of peeps related things.

You can imagine then why I was taken aback when Jeff nearly spit his dinner across the table at the mention of Jayce’s big boy panties.

Yes.  You read that right.

Big boy panties.

Apparently I made a cardinal mistake in teaching Jayce the term ‘big boy panties’.

Big boy panties, it seems, do not exist.

Who knew?

Big boys wear underwear.

Or undies.

Boxers is an acceptable term.

As is briefs.

Big boy panties though?

Not so much.

In my defense I’m the mother of three girls.  And just one boy.

I guess I’ve got a thing or two to learn in that department.

There was a fleeting moment today during which I second guessed God’s decision to give me four children.  It came to pass as I scrubbed a toilet.  My nine-year-old special needs daughter soaked nearby in the bathtub after a very messy accident left her, and the entire bathroom, in desperate need of my prompt and undivided attention.

Equipped with my tired old rubber gloves and a scant roll of paper towels I went to work.  Hunched over the lifted lid of a toilet I’d scrubbed only days before, I couldn’t help but envision a lifetime, both already spent and yet to come, taking care of someone else.  It was in that instant that I felt my spirit bow from the weight of momentary despair.  I fell apart not outwardly, but within, sure that one more soiled diaper or overturned plate of spaghetti, or smeared hand print would surely send me over the edge.

Thankfully these moments are few and far between.  Regrettably though, when they do occur I feel as if I’m teetering on the edge on insanity.

I knew going in that motherhood would not be glamorous.  Everyone knows, after all, that minivans and diaper bags don’t exactly scream sexy.  What I didn’t know was that it in spite of the constant companionship of my children, it would get lonely up here on the front lines.  The keeping up and keeping on is a necessary, but completely exhausting reality.  And in the height of the chaos–in the tangle of it all–I tend to lose bits and pieces of me.

Sacrifice and motherhood go hand in hand. Play dates rank above happy hour, parent teacher conferences come before pedicures.  I can deal with that.  Much more difficult to accept, though, was the loss of a social life, the giving up of all things girlfriend.  In spite of the teachers and neighbors and random other people in my life, I sometimes felt like a mom without a country.

Today’s encounter in the bathroom left me itching to get to my computer, not to post the gory details (and believe me they were!), but to commiserate.  To hear words of reassurance from a blog friend who, like me, has cleaned one too many toilets this week.  To be lifted up by a funny story.  To gain perspective from an inspirational post.

The blogosphere, it seems, has become my community.

Blogging is my constant.  My go-to for a split-second of sanity amid the commotion.  I turn to blogging friends when my toddler does something completely worthy of a laugh.  Or when I’m wondering what brand of washing machine to buy.  Or when I’m at my wit’s end with my mother-in-law.   I blog a gamut of emotions without fear, without restraint, and without regret.

Why?

Because time after time, comment after comment, I find acceptance.  I find understanding.  I find friendship.

Within the tangible parameters of my daily life there are but a handful of people with whom I connect.  My virtual life, though, delivers a daily dose of me time.  It opens up a world of women, not bound by geographical location, whose struggles and triumphs echo my own.  Our stories resonate; our lives intersect.

On the familiar blogs of friends I’ve come to know, I’m met with that which I, as a mom, as a wife, as an individual, long for: a compassionate group of like-minded women who share in this blissfully chaotic journey.

So what rewards have I found in the blogging community?  I’ve regained myself.  And, quite honestly, I missed me.

I’ve got three more tidbits of knowledge to pass along to you this week.

I know.

I amaze even myself.

So, without further ado, three things I learned on Sunday:

1. If you go to the grocery store on Super Bowl Sunday you will most certainly be sorry.  And not just because the checkout line wraps around the perimeter of the store and you will probably win the lottery of being squished in between the rotisserie chicken warmer and the guy who couldn’t wait until he got to the car to start munching on his extra crispy pork rinds.  No wait – it gets better.  Chances are that by the time you arrive all of the early churchgoers (or worse, church ditchers) will have already bought out every last one of the limes that you so desperately need so that your husband can whip up his special house margaritas.  There will, however, be plenty of those itty bitty key limes in stock.  The key limes though?  It’d take a small army of one-handed monkeys to squeeze enough of them to produce enough juice.  I don’t know why the monkeys are one handed, just go with me on this one.

2. When you don’t have enough limes to make margaritas, shots are the next best thing.  Especially if you make up a Super Bowl related drinking game.

3. If you play a Super Bowl related drinking game, you should learn the rules of football before agreeing to anything.  If, for instance, your well-meaning husband cons you into taking a shot every time a penalty is called, I advise you to pass on his selfless offer and instead, locate a store that has limes in stock.  Just steer clear of the pork rind dude; his breath will. be. hummin’.

Consider yourself warned.

Check out what the rest of the class is sharing this week at Musings of a Housewife.

Would you think less of me if I told you I follow the blog of a porn star?  Former porn star actually.  Once a porn star always a porn star in my book though.

Does the name Asia Carerra ring a bell?  If it does you should totally be blushing right now.

It didn’t ring a bell for me the first time I heard it.  The first time I heard it I was newly pregnant with Jayce and had discovered an online group of other women who were also expecting in August of 2006.  I spent some time reading through their profiles and posts, though I never really got involved beyond that.  I honestly can’t convey to you how utterly shocked I was when I happened upon Asia’s profile, in which she linked to her personal webpage.  Her personal web page, as you might have guessed, was rather revealing.

I read all about her, ahem, career as a porn star and how she’d met the man of her dreams and had subsequently decided to ‘retire’ from the ‘limelight’ (if I may be so bold).  There were pictures of her beautiful infant daughter right there alongside the photos of her wearing what I suppose would be considered her professional wardrobe.  She was expecting her second child (in real life, not in the photos) and was over the moon happy about it.

For months I followed the conversations of these online moms, especially those in which Asia was involved.  I remained thoroughly intrigued by her.  I’m a simple girl I suppose and I just couldn’t wrap my head around the porn star gone mom thing.  I wondered how she was going to explain herself to her children when the day eventually would come, and surely it would, when they would discover their mother’s sorted past.

Late one night in June, about two months before our August babies were due, I logged on to the mommy message board and saw a strange post from Asia.  In it she bluntly announced that her husband was dead, that he’d been killed in a car accident on the way home from a business trip in Las Vegas.

There was some debate amongst that online community as to whether or not Asia’s husband was really dead.  Some of them believed that she staged the whole thing as a ploy to con money out of people.  I don’t remember for certain but I want to say that within that very first post she gave out her paypal account information and asked for donations.  You can see why that struck people as somewhat odd.  If something horrible like that happened to me I would imagine the money would be the the furthest thing from my mind.  Perhaps that’s because I’m well cared for in that regard, should the worst happen.  I really can’t say what I would have done had I been in her stiletto heels.

Asia had her baby.  She debated giving him up for adoption, but decided against it in the end.  She had that baby on the floor of her living room without the assistance of a midwife, labor coach, or even a neighbor.  On her blog she detailed the whole thing, complete with pictures.  She initially named her son after his deceased father but eventually had it legally changed to the original name she and her husband had chosen.  I’ve read along as she has sobbed for the loss of her husband and slowly but surely emerged a stronger more capable mother for all that she has endured.  When she discovered a long lost life insurance policy I let out a sigh of relief for her two kids.  When she set out on a weight loss journey I followed every step of the way.  I’ve seen countless photos of her smiling kids and more than my fair share of other, not so family friendly photos as well.

It’s an odd thing, my fascination with Asia Carerra.  But I’m definitely hooked on her story.  And not in the same way I’m ‘hooked’ on the mundane happenings in the lives of the ‘real’ bloggers I follow.  I hope my use of the word mundane doesn’t offend you ‘real’ bloggers.  You know what I mean right?  The real bloggers could totally be my girlfriends in real life.  If we all lived in the same city we’d get together for mornings in the park and mommy-only happy hours.  We’d go away for a night at a spa and we’d help out with each others’ kids in a pinch.

Asia though?  Not so much.

I enjoy peering at her life through a looking glass.  The watching from a distance pulls me in much like Days of Our Lives did for the longest time, whereas the real thing might be a tad too raw for me.

I suppose that makes me a voyeur, in the prying observer sense of course, not the sexual deviant sense.  But, like me, she does write a blog and makes it available to the public at large.  That totally justifies my stalking, don’t you think?

On her blog, Asia has already announced that at some point in the not-so-distant future she’s going to dismantle her blog and regain annonymity for the sake of her children.  When she does it’ll be like the season finale of Seinfeld, or Cheers, or maybe something a tad less wholesome like CBS’s Big Brother.  My point is that her departure will leave a bit of a void in my life.

I wonder if Jenna Jameson (and yes, I totally had to ask my hubby for another porn star reference) has a blog.  Maybe I should start following now.

I’m totally kidding Gram.  About the replacement porn star blogger.  When the time comes for Asia’s departure, I’m sure the (thankfully) mundane lives of  my real blog friends will keep me plenty occupied.